


let's get physical

by unconscious



Series: you live like you're on camera: the extended cinematic taeminverse [2]
Category: EXO (Band), SHINee, SuperM (Korea Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, THOT MODE: ACTIVATED, au where BTS have their own rooms in the dorm to make my life easier, jikook are in love 2min are friends taekai are an old married couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23841964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unconscious/pseuds/unconscious
Summary: “I don’t want to cause you any trouble,” Taemin lies. Causing trouble is exactly what he wants to do. If Jeongguk’s touching Jimin likethat,and staring at Taemin likethis,and those twoaren’tfucking, there’s a serious problem in the Bangtan group dynamics.There's something going on between Jimin and Jeongguk. It's annoying. If they won't address it themselves, Taemin will.
Relationships: Jeon Jungkook/Park Jimin, Kim Jongin | Kai/Lee Taemin, Lee Taemin/Park Jimin (BTS)
Series: you live like you're on camera: the extended cinematic taeminverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731835
Comments: 66
Kudos: 472





	let's get physical

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [it's no secret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23322898) by [cephalopop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cephalopop/pseuds/cephalopop). 

> me: what a fun idea my friend had, i love a casual silly fwb fic  
me 17k words later: ..............
> 
> pls enjoy this bespoke porn, titled after dua lipa, the hwasa remix obviously. (working title: Meddling Ice Queen Taemin.)

“Guess what I did while you were gone.” Taemin shoves Jongin back onto the bed and immediately climbs atop him, bracketing Jongin’s hips with his knees. Jongin’s been busy with EXO promotions, but now their schedules are aligned, both bursting with SuperM nonsense. It’s stressful, and Taemin doesn’t exactly love being the most experienced one in the group. It’s nice to have Jongin around regularly. It’s nice to fit in little breaks like this, sneaking back to Taemin’s apartment between practices and meetings. Jongin’s a wonderful friend, and a great lay, and if Taemin wasn’t able to blow off steam like this he thinks his head might fully detach from his body and roll away. They’ve always screwed around, ever since they became friends what feels like a century ago—it’s affectionate, it’s fun, it makes Taemin’s job a lot more bearable.

“What?” Jongin asks with a lazy smile on his face. “Fucked Heechul-hyung? You already told me about that.” He slides a hand under the hem of Taemin’s sweater. “I still think it’s gross. He’s like, forty.”

“He’s thirty-six.” Taemin strips off his sweater, then his t-shirt, too. “It was fine, thanks for asking. He’s funny. He thinks he knows a lot more than he does. Guess again.”

“I’m not guessing.” Jongin wriggles on the bed, adjusting himself enough to get his own shirt off. Taemin nearly sighs at the sight. Jongin’s so fucking big now, tall and broad and filled out, from the hard curve of his deltoid to his sharply defined abs. “Just tell me.”

He’s so handsome. Taemin skims his hands down Jongin’s chest. “I slept with Jimin.”

“What!” Jongin grabs Taemin by the hips and flips them roughly, so Taemin’s flat on his back, laughing. Jongin hovers above him and points a finger in Taemin’s face. “Already? Tell me!”

Taemin licks Jongin’s finger in retribution. Jongin grimaces and wipes it on Taemin’s clean sheets.

“He was asking me about Heechul,” Taemin says. “Take your jeans off.”

“You first.”

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? He was all cute and shy about it” —Taemin shoves Jongin off the bed, and they both wrestle out of their jeans— “because he’d never been fucked before.”

“You’re kidding me.” Jongin covers Taemin’s body with his own and Taemin hums at the weight of him. He runs his hands down Jongin’s back and grips his ass hard. Jongin hisses and nips at Taemin’s jaw. “You deflowered Park Jimin?”

“Not really.” Taemin tilts his head to the side, exposing more of his neck, and Jongin obliges him with kisses. “I’d planned on it, but he got all worked up just from being fingered.”

Jongin groans approvingly and shifts his hips against Taemin’s. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Taemin cards his hand through Jongin’s hair and pulls him up to kiss him roughly, but sweetly, before shoving his head back down.

“Bossy,” Jongin says, but he drops kisses down Taemin’s chest and runs the flat of his tongue over Taemin’s nipple the way he knows Taemin wants.

“Can’t kiss you, I’m telling a story,” Taemin says. The pressure of Jongin’s mouth on his chest is a wonderful, warm distraction. “I told him to think about someone he likes. He said he didn’t like anyone, which is idiotic, because he’s glued to Jeongguk at all times. Have you noticed that? It’s kind of cute.”

Jongin nips the muscle of his pectoral, just above his ribs. “And?”

The pinprick of pain makes Taemin shift his hips up, rutting the line of his cock against Jongin’s through their shorts. The friction is familiar, which makes it no less delicious. “So I asked him to think about Jeongguk.”

“That’s very romantic.” Jongin drifts further down and kisses Taemin’s abs, then pins his hips to the bed with those broad hands Taemin likes so much. “Tell me the good parts, you brat.”

Taemin resists, tries to move, just to feel the easy strength in Jongin’s muscled arms as he holds him in place. “We were drinking wine.” He buries both his hands in Jongin’s hair, not directing, just holding on. “Jimin’s lips were so red. And he gets this pink flush all the way down to his chest.”

“What else?” Jongin mouths at the shape of Taemin’s cock, breathing against it. Taemin sucks in an inhale and tightens his grip. God, it’s good every time. His spine might melt out of his back.

“He was so tight.”

Jongin’s hands flex on his hips.

Taemin tips his head back so Jongin can’t see him smirk. He thinks about that night—how he’d spread a nervous, excited Jimin out on the hotel sheets, how Jimin had kissed so messy and desperate, how he’d gasped at every twist of Taemin’s wrist and crook of his fingers, how he’d pushed back against Taemin’s thrusts without even thinking about it. “His voice gets so high-pitched. And he’s so pretty, too, Jongin, he arched off the bed like this” —Taemin arches his back, and Jongin only pins him down harder, mutters, “showoff”— “and was fucking riding my hand.”

Jongin shoves Taemin’s shorts down, just enough to expose his cock, and licks a long hot stripe from base to tip. “You made him come like that?”

Taemin would roll his eyes if he wasn’t so caught up in the brain-melting sensation of having Jongin’s lips on him. “Of course I did,” Taemin breathes. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Jongin says fondly, then sucks Taemin down.

After a spectacular blowjob, Taemin gets Jongin off easily with a hand on his cock and a slightly embellished, dirtier version of the real events with Jimin. It’s less about what he says, though—Jongin likes to hear his voice. That’s the other thing that makes this whole arrangement so excellent. They just know each other.

Steam billows from the bathroom when Jongin emerges, toweling his hair roughly. “What time is that meeting about that weird commercial we’re doing?”

“I can’t believe they haven’t slept together,” Taemin says as he scrolls through his phone.

“The meeting, Tae.”

“I think it’d make their relationship a lot better.” Taemin sets his phone on his chest. “Don’t you?”

“How do you have the brain space for this? Aren’t you doing like ten different projects right now?”

Taemin sighs. “It’s in an hour. Listen, we have tomorrow night off, I’m texting Jimin to meet us for drinks.”

“An hour!” Jongin hurls the towel, wet from his hair, at the bed. “Get dressed!”

Taemin dodges it easily. An hour is plenty of time—he has his schedule laid out down to the minute in his mind, and he knows he can lounge in bed and look at his phone for four more before he has to get up and change to make it to the meeting on time. And Jongin knows it too, despite his grousing.

He watches Jongin putter around the room, pulling on his jeans and pilfering one of Taemin’s oversized shirts, since the regular ones no longer fit his broad frame. He curses to himself as he tugs it on, over the gorgeously tanned skin of his back, and finds it leaves a thin strip of skin visible over the waistband of his jeans.

“Looks sexy,” Taemin deadpans. Jongin shoots him an irritated look and tugs desperately at the hem of the shirt as if that’ll make it magically grow in length. Sometimes it’s hard to believe tall-jacked-gorgeous-EXO-Kai is the same goofy, anxious, skinny trainee he met a lifetime ago. Other times, like this, it’s absolutely not. Taemin hops off the bed and fishes a plain sweater from his closet. “Here.” He tosses it to Jongin. It fits perfectly. Jongin sighs dramatically with relief and tousles Taemin’s hair in thanks. Then he steals a mask, too, and hooks it under his chin as he haphazardly styles his hair.

Taemin wants this for Jimin, too. Ease. Friendship. Sex. The best way to bear it is with someone who knows the industry just as well.

And, honestly, it’ll be fun. He shoots a quick message to Jimin, then his four minutes are up, and he gets dressed himself.

*

Somehow Jimin makes it to Taemin’s apartment unnoticed. He’s nervous, in the pleasant, excited way he gets before a show—anticipation sparking somewhere low in his gut. He’s hung out with Taemin a few times, since That Night (which is how Jimin has started referring to it in his mind, shortened from That Night In A Love Motel When Taemin-Hyung Fingered Me Into Blacking Out) but only in group settings, and only in restaurants or at events. It’s not on purpose, they both have busy schedules and they’re with different companies. It’s a miracle they’re friends at all.

They’ve texted a little. And Taemin’s always nice. And Taemin had said nothing had to change.

But everything had changed for Jimin.

The elegant stainless steel elevator doors of Taemin’s building slide closed. Jimin’s reflection looks like a post-apocalyptic ant, with big sunglasses despite the late hour, a gray mask, and a beanie pulled down over his ears. He looks stupid. He shoves the glasses into the pocket of his jacket and pulls his mask down under his chin.

On That Night, Taemin had found that magical place inside him that sent liquid pleasure coursing down his spine, kissed his hip, and told him to think about Jeongguk.

Maybe Taemin is the thing that’s magical and what he did was actually a curse. Because now Jimin can’t _stop_ thinking about Jeongguk. He watches his mouth when he talks, wonders how his lips would feel against his. He notices the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his calves when he dances. He stares at Jeongguk’s hands when he’s texting, watching the tendons in his hands and forearms shift, pop out, and thinks about what those fingers might feel like inside him.

Unfortunately for Jimin, it’s not just Jeongguk’s stupidly muscly body he’s obsessing over, either. It’s the way Jeongguk gravitates towards him—the way he touches Jimin so gently, the way he laughs at his jokes, the way he buys him food even though Jimin’s older, the way he can tell when Jimin is sore, or tired, or overworked, and always has a gentle hand or a soft word or a cuddle or a hug or—

Fuck. Fuck.

This is all Taemin’s fault. The elevator doors open.

Taemin sticks his head out of the door as soon as the elevator dings. “Jiminie!” he calls, waving frantically from the doorway.

Jimin huffs a laugh and hurries over. He can’t even be mad that Taemin is an evil witch who cursed him with the knowledge of his own crush on Jeongguk. How can he be, when Taemin so _fucking_ cute, especially like this, with his dark hair unstyled and an oversized ochre sweater sliding off his shoulder?

Taemin ushers him inside the apartment, closes the door, and immediately wraps Jimin in a tight hug. Jimin’s so surprised he almost drops the six-pack of beer he brought onto the floor. Once his brain comes back online, he returns the embrace, wrapping his arms around Taemin’s trim middle and tucking his face into the crook of Taemin’s neck. Ugh, it’s nice, and Taemin smells so good, like rosewood and bergamot; when he pulls back, Taemin’s smiling so big Jimin can’t help but grin back. “Jiminie.” Taemin tugs off Jimin’s beanie to twirl a strand of Jimin’s blond hair between his fingers. “It’s good to see you. Outside of work, for once.”

“I know,” Jimin says. “You’ve been well?”

And just as Taemin had promised, it’s not weird. It’s not weird to be in his apartment as Taemin flits around pulling out glasses and plates; it’s not weird to listen to him ramble about the difficulties of this big secret project he’s definitely not supposed to be talking about.

Eventually they end up on the couch, and Taemin sits very close to Jimin with his hand on Jimin’s thigh.

But it’s comfortable. Taemin asks him about the band, his projects, their upcoming tour, and he listens with his eyes bright and focused and flickering to Jimin’s mouth.

Jimin sort of wants to kiss him. But only sort of. Everyone sort of wants to kiss Taemin, even those who haven’t been Fingered Into Blacking Out. 

Taemin’s in the middle of sipping his beer when his phone goes off, and he almost drops the bottle in an effort to fish his phone from his pocket. “Ah!” He punches a code into the phone. It controls the elevator, Jimin realizes. Wow, Taemin is like, _rich_ rich. “Jongin’s finally here. I sent him to pick up dinner. Took him long enough. Probably stopped and put a bunch of convenience store snacks on my credit card... That’s what I get for trying to be a good hyung.” He rolls his eyes. “You know Kim Jongin, right?”

Oh, come the _fuck_ on.

“Kai-ssi?” Jimin squawks. Of course Taemin would just spring Kai on him, when Jimin’s in trackpants and a t-shirt and didn’t wear any makeup besides lip balm. He’s friendly with Kai, sure, but he’s one of those people Jimin likes to be prepared to see, so he can brace himself to deal with how tall he is and how deep his voice is and how distractingly handsy he gets when he drinks.

Taemin waves a hand dismissively, still focused on his phone. “Don’t call him Kai-ssi in my apartment, it’s weird. It’d be like if I came to your dorm and started calling your Joonie Rapmonster.”

Jimin pauses. “Wait, but you should definitely do that. He’d have to quit the band from embarrassment.”

Then the door opens.

Jimin kind of wants to melt into the floor.

“Hi." Jongin pokes his head into the apartment. “Anyone home?”

“I only wanted pad see ew.” Taemin stands up from the couch, elegant as always. “Did you have to go to Thailand to find it?”

“I had to get dessert, too.” Jongin’s laden down with bags, and Taemin quickly helps him set everything on the island. Then there’s this moment, once everything is set down, where Jongin grips Taemin by the hips hard and pushes him up against the kitchen island. He’s taller than Taemin, broader, too, and the smile he flashes at Taemin has a slight predatory edge to it. He leans down and murmurs something in Taemin’s ear, and Taemin laughs, low, as he tugs playfully on the strings of Jongin’s hoodie.

It’s cute, and intimate, and Jimin feels very strongly that he’s missing something.

But then it’s over. And then.

Here it comes.

Jongin’s attention lands on Jimin.

His face lights up. Jongin’s just offensively handsome, with his cheekbones, and his jawline, and that killer smile. “Jimin-ah!” he says in that rich, low voice, and wraps Jimin in a hug so tight it literally lifts Jimin up onto his toes. Jimin is suffocating in the soft fabric of Jongin’s hoodie. Honestly, he is completely in the wrong industry. There is no way he is meant to survive this.

Jongin releases him and then grips his shoulder roughly. “Jimin-ah, sorry, I was supposed to beat you here with the food.”

“Pocky isn’t even good!” Taemin stares indignantly into one of the shopping bags. “Why did you buy three boxes?”

“Pepero game later,” Jongin says. Then he winks at Jimin.

Unbelievable. Jimin plans to file charges.

They eat on the couch, with takeout covering the coffee table. One beer becomes two, three, and then they break into the soju, and the night devolves into laughter and nostalgia as Jongin takes them on a tour of Taemin’s Hairstyles Through The Ages, complete with embarrassing stories from the vaults of a decade-plus of friendship. Taemin retaliates with a single picture of Jongin’s 2017-era fake dreadlocks, and Jongin covers his face and groans so dramatically he physically slides off the couch and onto the floor.

Jimin’s abs hurt from laughing so hard.

“You Bangtan boys are lucky,” Jongin gripes from the floor. “You don’t have to do any stupid concepts like that. You just get to be yourselves.”

“Kind of.” Jimin shrugs. “But, I mean. They tried to make us a hip-hop group in the beginning.”

“Ooooh,” Taemin says, nodding. “I forgot about that. Can’t believe that didn’t work.”

“Don’t be a brat.” Jongin climbs back onto the couch.

“I’m _older _than you,” Taemin protests.

“I’m looking up pictures,” Jongin says. “What year was this?”

Jimin can feel the embarrassed flush all the way to his ears. “Aiyah! Don’t look them up!”

“You were so cute!” Jongin swipes through his phone. “Your cheeks, Jiminie!”

Now it’s Jimin’s turn to slide off the couch and onto the floor. Taemin slides off next to him, and they lean against the couch, nearly at eye level with the coffee table, now a vessel for empty bottles and takeout containers. Taemin nudges it with his foot, giving them a little more space on the floor. He wraps an arm around Jimin’s shoulders and Jimin leans heavily against him.

It’s nice, doing this, Jimin thinks. Bangtan feels stiflingly insular sometimes. It’s nice to remember that there’s other people doing this job. That he can have friends outside of his dorm.

God, Taemin smells good.

“How are the Bangtan boys?” Taemin asks. He trails his fingers under the neckline of Jimin’s shirt. The contact, the booze, and Jongin’s suddenly interested gaze combine to spark heat all the way to the marrow of his bones.

“Busy,” Jimin sighs. “Always busy.”

“How’s your Jeonggukkie?” Taemin asks.

Jimin hums. How is Jeongguk right now, he wonders? It’s late. Is he asleep? Or maybe it’s one of those nights where he can’t sleep, and he creeps down to the gym to run himself into exhaustion. (Jimin hates those nights.) Or maybe he’s wrapped up in an Overwatch match. Or maybe he’s lying in his bed, waiting for Jimin to come home. Maybe he waits the same way Jimin waits for him, thoughtfully, curiously, trailing a hand over his abs, lower, maybe wondering...

“I don’t know Jeongguk well.” Jongin stretches his long legs out on the couch, taking up nearly all of it now that Taemin and Jimin are both on the floor. “He seems sweet.” He looks down his nose. “He’s always hanging onto you. A little clingy.”

“He’s just shy,” Jimin says. “He gets anxious in crowds sometimes.”

“He’s got the wrong job, then,” Jongin mutters. He glances down at Taemin, and Taemin meets his eyes. They have some sort of complicated, silent conversation that Jimin is too tipsy to follow.

“And he’s our maknae. We baby him.” Jimin pinches Taemin’s cheek. “You know something about that, don’t you, Taemin-hyung?”

“I haven’t been babied a day in my life,” Taemin says primly.

Jongin picks up his phone. “Hold that thought, I’m texting Minho-hyung to confirm.”

Taemin furrows his brow. “I’m not sure if Minho knows how to text.”

Something on Jongin’s phone catches his attention and he levers all those long limbs a little clumsily off the couch. “Wait, I do actually have to return this call.” He steps onto the balcony and slides the glass doors closed behind him.

Then they’re alone.

Jimin is suddenly hyper-aware of every place their bodies touch: the slim muscle of Taemin’s thigh against his, the strength of his shoulder where Jimin rests his head, the gentle touch of his fingertips against his collarbone, the barely-there scratch of his nails.

“I want to know, though,” Taemin says.

“Know what?” Jimin hovers between sleepy, tipsy, and horny, with Taemin against him and idle thoughts of Jeongguk bouncing around his head.

“How your Jeonggukkie is.” Taemin tugs at Jimin’s hair, getting his attention. “How you both are.”

“We’re fine.” And it’s not a lie. They _are_ fine. Their friendship is good.

That’s all. It’s enough.

Taemin hums thoughtfully. “Okay.” Then he slides his hand into Jimin’s hair and grips it, just enough to gently pull his head away off Taemin’s shoulder, so Taemin can meet his eyes. “Hi,” he says.

Wow. The arousal that rushes through him hits sudden and fast, like the soju, when he sees the dark interest in Taemin’s eyes, and the bitten red of his lips. “Hi.”

With his free hand, Taemin reaches up and touches Jimin’s lower lip. “So pretty, Jimin-ah.”

When _Lee Taemin_ calls you pretty, you know something is going extremely well in your life. Jimin flushes hot under the praise. “Hyung.”

“Did you have fun last time we were together?” Taemin slides his finger forward, not into Jimin’s mouth, but enough to bump his lower teeth.

Jimin shivers. “I…”

“Did you practice on yourself at home?” Taemin smiles. Evilly.

Jimin gasps in surprise at the question, and Taemin’s finger slides a little further into his mouth, catching on the ridge of his teeth. “A little,” Jimin admits. “S’not the same.”

“You want to show me?” Taemin asks, easy as anything, like he’s talking about choreography.

“_Taemin,”_ Jimin says, because he can’t believe the things that are coming out of Taemin’s mouth. “What about— Jongin-hyung—”

Taemin finally withdraws his finger and draws it down Jimin’s neck instead, circling his Adam’s apple, then tapping at the hollow of his throat. “Jongin and I are friends,” he says. “Good friends. Friends like you and I are.”

“Oh.” Jimin’s brain absolutely short-circuits at the thought of those two together. He swallows hard.

“It’s nice, having a friend like Jongin,” Taemin says carefully. “It’s hard for people like us to date, in this industry. I thought maybe Jeongguk was your friend in that way, too.”

Whatever’s left of Jimin’s poor frazzled brain definitely dies at that implication. Because—wow, it would be nice, wouldn’t it? An easy way to relax, destress, and get what he needs without the risk of a career-ending scandal.

And, he realizes with powerful surety, that is not what he wants from Jeongguk. He wants stupid bullshit with Jeongguk, like kisses, and shared breakfasts, and vacations. He wants Jeongguk through all this, and after it, too.

The balcony door slides open. “Are you decent?” Jongin asks.

“Define decent,” Taemin says with his hand still in Jimin’s hair.

Jongin whistles admiringly. Jimin really thinks every drop of blood in his body is either in his face or his dick. He probably looks like a strawberry. But the slow smile that slides across Jongin’s face suggests he doesn’t look too ridiculous. “Stay there,” Jongin says. “I’m opening the Pocky.”

Taemin’s hand drifts to the back of Jimin’s neck as Jongin approaches. For a moment, Jongin just towers over them, all long legs and muscled forearms. Taemin tilts his chin up to meet Jongin’s gaze with a little bit of a challenge in his eyes.

Then Jongin bends at the waist and kisses Taemin.

Jimin’s eyes nearly fall out of his head.

It’s not a deep, romantic kiss—it’s light, barely there, and Jongin seems more focused on setting his teeth into Taemin’s lower lip than anything else. Taemin pulls away and swats at Jongin’s shoulder. “Stop biting,” he complains. “That’s for later.”

Both of them turn their gazes to Jimin. With Taemin’s hand on the back of his neck, and Jongin above him, Jimin feels not unlike a rabbit edging backward into a hedge as the foxes close in. But, like, in a sexy way.

So here’s his moment. Jimin’s had exactly One ‘sexual experience,’ if That Night even counts as such, and now he’s got two blindingly attractive men who _apparently _fuck each other looking at him like they want him to join in on their _apparently_ fun and nonserious friends-with-benefits-ing.

Jimin swallows.

This is so fucking embarrassing.

It’s embarrassing because he wants to go home.

“I think, uh,” Jimin stammers. “I think I should probably, uh—I’ve got an early call tomorrow—it’s late—”

Taemin’s expression softens. He nudges at Jongin’s legs, urging him to step back, and then stands and helps Jimin to his feet as well. Jimin feels like such a baby, suddenly, more than he has in years—like a dumb inexperienced kid who can’t let go of his crush long enough to _literally_ have a _threesome_ with _superstars._

He could do that, or he could go home and slide into Jeongguk’s bed, disturbing Jeongguk enough to cause him to mutter darkly and then slot his broad chest up against Jimin’s back and huff an annoyed breath into his nape before settling back into sleep.

He wants that, right now, more than anything else.

How _embarrassing._

“Sure, Jiminie,” Taemin says warmly, and picks up his phone. “I have a car that can take you.” (_Rich_ rich.)

“It’s not—” Jimin purses his lips. He wants to explain, somehow, that it’s his own fault, and he’s grateful, and maybe next time but this is sort of a lot all at once and last time Taemin didn’t even get his own dick out, and this time he’d be navigating _two_ dicks, and Jimin’s had, like, a _lot_ of soju, but he doesn’t want the opportunity taken off the table permanently because, wow, potentiality of kissing Jongin, but right now… Right now he’s a little too… He doesn’t know. Fragile?

“Jimin-ah,” Jongin interjects as Taemin’s absorbed in his phone. Jongin really has such a nice smile. It settles something anxious in Jimin’s chest. “Don’t worry. Really.”

Jongin loops an arm around Jimin’s shoulders and walks him toward the kitchen. He bumps his nose against Jimin’s temple, then drops a friendly kiss on the crown of his head. It sends a warm shiver down Jimin’s spine. “Taeminnie’s just nosy,” Jongin says. “And insatiable. But he wants you to be happy. Tell Jeongguk we said hello, yeah?”

Jimin’s so fucking flustered he can barely get an affirmative sentence out. Taemin and Jongin send him out of the apartment with hugs and laughter and a box of Pocky in his jacket pocket, and as soon as the door closes, Jimin hears the tell-tale thump of a body hitting the couch, and Taemin’s pretty, breathy sigh.

By the time Taemin’s driver drops him off at his dorm, the effects of the soju and the excitement have worn off a little. Jimin shoulders open the front door and toes his shoes off with a defeated exhale, then drops his jacket and beanie to the floor. Despite his embarrassment he’s still wound up. He wants to be touched. The ability to suffer through this amount of teasing alone has been thoroughly beaten out of him by a zillion years of living with six other handsy boys.

“Jimin-ah.”

Jeongguk’s voice is low and rough with sleepiness. He sounds like he does early in the morning, when they’ve both passed out in Jeongguk’s bed and Jeongguk wakes Jimin up with a sleepy shake and his voice right in Jimin’s ear.

“Ggukkie.” Jimin feels like he’s been caught, somehow, even though that makes no sense.

“It’s late.” Jeongguk finishes stirring the drink he’s made and takes a sip. He’s standing in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a ratty old sleeveless shirt and loose sweatpants. Workout clothes. He’s not sweaty, though; it’s not beading at his temples nor dampening his shirt just below his pecs, clinging to his abs. Which means he wasn’t running. Probably weightlifting, Jimin guesses, he wants to get close and confirm that, wants to squeeze Jeongguk’s shoulders and see if he groans at the pleasurable ache. The drink is probably an awful blend of protein powder and water, which is all Jeongguk gets when he’s too close to his calorie limit. “Where were you?” He doesn’t sound accusing, just curious. He tilts his head to the side.

He’s so cute. Why does he get to be so jacked but also so cute? It’s not fair. Jimin’s too simultaneously too tired and too wound up to deal with this. He shuffles into the kitchen.

Jeongguk sets his drink on the counter.

Jimin leans heavily against him. He tips his head into the crook of Jeongguk’s neck and sighs with relief when Jeongguk loops his arms around his waist. Ugh, it feels good.

Feels like home.

“Tired, Chim? Tipsy?”

Jimin loves being close to Jeongguk when he’s fresh from the gym—when he’s warm from exertion, a little loose-limbed from stretching, and musky with sweat. He wants to slide his hands under Jeongguk’s shirt to his lower back and dig his fingers into the muscle there. Wants to draw them back and lick the taste of salt from his fingertips. Instead he flexes his hands into his own thighs. “Are you?” he asks against Jeongguk’s skin. “Couldn’t sleep? Had to lift the pain away?”

“Just a little stressed. A weird feeling.” Jeongguk tips his nose into the crown of Jimin’s head, similar to how Jongin had, and that realization makes Jimin’s heart stutter.

“Stress isn’t weird.”

“It wasn’t—it doesn’t matter.” He inhales, _sniffing _Jimin’s hair; it’s strange and possessive and sends heat ripping through Jimin’s body. “You smell different. Like perfume. Did you go to a club or something?”

Jimin bites back the question of what it is, exactly, he smells like. Rosewood and bergamot? Maybe an edge of Jongin’s sandalwood cologne? “I was just at Taemin-hyung’s apartment,” he says. “Had dinner. Some drinks.”

“Taemin-hyung?” Jeongguk’s grip around his waist tightens slightly.

“Yeah,” Jimin says. The edge in Jeongguk’s voice makes him pull back, with some reluctance, so he can see the slight furrow in Jeongguk’s brow. “He invited me. It was fun.”

“Fun,” Jeongguk echoes. His dark eyes flicker across Jimin’s face.

Jimin swallows, and Jeongguk’s eyes track that motion, too. In a strange way he feels like Jeongguk can see the evidence of everything that almost happened, as if Taemin’s finger on his lower lip had left a burn.

Maybe it’s the soju, or the almost-threesome, but Jimin finds he wants Jeongguk to know. He wants to see how deep this dark possessive look goes. “Kai-ssi was there, too.”

“What’d you do?” Jeongguk asks, low.

Jimin can’t help it. The memory’s so fresh—the way Taemin’s finger had caught on the edge of his teeth. The way Taemin’s hand had snarled in his hair as he’d kissed Jongin. And they’d both looked at him. Despite his inability to act on it Jimin had felt so deliciously _wanted_, wanted in a way he never got from Jeongguk. He almost says it. He almost says, _They wanted to fuck me._

They made him feel easy to want.

“We drank soju.” He draws his lower lip in between his teeth. “Ate Pocky. Pepero game.” 

Jeongguk’s gaze cuts away hard as he drops his hold on Jimin’s waist, then forcibly moves to the side, away from Jimin, to drink more of his nasty protein slush. “I’m glad you had fun, hyung.”

“Don’t call me that.” Jimin cards a hand through his hair and tries to ignore the way his heart drops to his feet. “It was just dinner.”

“We have an early call tomorrow.” Jeongguk rinses the glass in the sink, then turns to walk toward the hall. “You should sleep so you’re not hungover.”

“You should, too,” Jimin shoots back. He wraps his arms around himself, already missing the heat of Jeongguk’s body against his. “Why are you being so weird? Do you not like Taemin-hyung?”

Jeongguk pauses. He glances over his shoulder, and his eyes soften, his shoulders droop. “It’s not that, it’s just” —he hums in frustration and rubs at the back of his neck— “it was a weird day.”

Jeongguk’s back is to him. Jimin can’t resist that broad plane of muscle, especially when Jeongguk’s voice is so low and quiet. He closes the distance between them again, presses his front to Jeongguk’s back and hooks his chin over Jeongguk’s shoulder. “Weird how? Tell hyung.”

“You _just_ said not to call you that.”

“You can when you’re being nice.” Jimin flattens his hands against the hard plane of Jeongguk’s abs.

Jeongguk sighs and covers Jimin’s hands with his own. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Okay,” Jimin says. “Let me sleep with you.”

“Aiyah, Jiminie, you have a perfectly good bed of your own.”

“I’ve had too much soju,” Jimin says, even though he’s clearly ninety percent sober at this point. “I’ll sleep through my alarm. You have to wake me up.” He noses at Jeongguk’s neck, then blows a raspberry there.

Jeongguk laughs; it’s a warm vibrating rumble that Jimin can feel in his chest where they touch. “Okay,” he says. “Come on.”

With his legs tangled with Jeongguk’s and his nose pressed to the nape of Jeongguk’s neck Jimin sleeps like the dead.

*

After that dinner, Taemin doesn’t see Jimin for two months.

It’s not on purpose—it’s just how things go in their industry. Taemin’s got his solo stuff, and now this new group project, which means seemingly endless meetings and practices. And Bangtan’s always busy making hundreds of weird stupid YouTube videos.

But they text. A lot.

Taemin’s not really a big texter, honestly, he doesn’t really like to be considered ‘accessible’ to people who aren’t his SHINee hyungs or Jongin or, more recently, his dongsaeng Jisung. But he’d messaged Jimin after that dinner, mostly to make sure Jimin didn’t think Taemin _only_ wanted to sleep with him. He likes Jimin’s friendship, first and foremost. The occasional fuck would be a nice bonus.

The pitiful look on Jimin’s face when Taemin mentioned Jeongguk, though, made it obvious what Jimin was dealing with was not an excellent and fun situation like his with Jongin.

Jimin had responded to his text eagerly, with a lot of emoji.

Then he’d started sending _pictures._

Taemin’s thumbing through the pictures now in the green room at whatever countdown show he’s on now. (At about year nine they all started to blur together.) It’s a little dangerous to look at the pictures in a public setting like this, but Taemin’s bored, and he knows Bangtan is somewhere in their own dressing room getting ready for their set, and Taemin’s considering asking for a new photo just to cause a little ruckus.

There’s nothing too scandalous—just artful mirror pictures of Jimin’s lean, muscled torso; pouty selfies; shots of himself in his bed with the sheets riding dangerously low on his hips. Taemin doesn’t send any back. Jimin doesn’t seem to want them. Taemin just responds with sultry little compliments, asks for more pictures, and gets them.

In this business Taemin has found an intense kind of fulfillment in having secrets. And this secret he likes quite a lot.

In a fit of impulsivity he takes a quick selfie and sends it to Jimin. _Heard you’re performing. Good luck~_

Through the wall he hears a crash and a familiar squawk. Bangtan’s dressing room is closer than he thought. There’s sounds of — physical fighting? Maybe a table breaking? — and shouts from cordi-noonas and managers alike.

It settles down. Taemin’s phone buzzes. _Pretty Taemin-hyung~ yes! I’ll see you after~_

Taemin watches Bangtan’s set from the wings. It’s good. Not great, by any means, but it’s decent. It’s a little frustrating to watch simply because Jimin can dance, really dance, the way Taemin and Ten and Jisung can dance, and the rest of the Bangtan Boys are just doing the moves correctly.

Jeongguk is… Exceedingly competent. Taemin doesn’t know him well, but that’s the vibe he gets, watching him perform on and off stage. He’s comfortable, and charming, and does everything to the best of his ability, which is quite good.

And Jeongguk watches Jimin. If Jeongguk’s hands aren’t on Jimin, his eyes are.

From the way Jimin leans into it, then pulls away—from the dark look in Jimin’s eyes when Jeongguk can’t see it—from the way he laughs too loud and then reaches too hungrily—

They’re not fucking.

Taemin rolls his eyes.

The interview segment of their set ends. Bangtan-and-posse move like a uncontrollable herd of drunken cats into their dressing room. Taemin’s already performed, and his staff have already touched up his makeup and hair for the final bit of filming. In the mirror, he looks untouchable, with his dark hair carefully tousled to fall into one eye shaded in brown. He has a few minutes to kill.

So. Why not say hi?

The noise behind Bangtan’s door rivals the headache-inducing din of a Super Junior green room. He raps his knuckles on the door; it’s barely audible. Fuck it. He opens the door.

“Excuse me, everybody, hello.”

The room quiets. Hoseok and Taehyung have Jin pinned on a couch and are trying to clip something into his hair. Namjoon’s arguing with their manager. Jeongguk’s sitting in a folding chair near the makeup-noonas’ station, and Jimin’s in his lap, despite the abundance of couches. From one of said couches, Yoongi deadpans, “Hello, Taemin-sunbaenim,” without looking up from his phone. (He likes Yoongi.) There is, in fact, a broken table.

The room is still for a moment while everyone adjusts to his presence. Taemin’s used to having that effect, especially when he’s fully made up, and he preens a little under the attention.

Taemin walks over to Jimin and Jeongguk, his heels loud on the tile. Hoseok does something weird to Jin’s face, and Jin makes a shrill noise of protest, and the room devolves into chaos around them again. It’s an odd kind of privacy. Everyone’s distracted, except Yoongi, who watches closely from the couch across the room.

“Taeminnie!” Jimin says brightly. His hair’s bubblegum-pink and fluffy with product, cheeks blushed. He explodes out of Jeongguk’s lap to throw his arms around Taemin’s neck. “Aish, it’s been ages, you’ve been well?”

“You know I have been,” Taemin says easily, and catches Jeongguk’s dark eyes over Jimin’s shoulder.

Jeongguk’s _literally _squeezing his hand into a fist on his thigh. Like he wants to punch Taemin through the wall.

Taemin slides his hands around Jimin’s waist, sets them low at Jimin’s hips, so his fingertips rest at Jimin's lower back. Jeongguk stares at the points of contact like he wants to set them alight. These two are stupid. It’s cute. “Your hair looks better in person,” Taemin says. “The color’s nice.”

A flush rises in Jimin’s ears. His makeup hides the rest of it. “You think?”

“Yeah.” Taemin cards his fingers through the bangs, gently, not enough to disturb the styling. “Pretty. You’re the visual of the group.”

“Wrong!” Jin squawks from where he’s now face-down on the couch with Taehyung’s knee in his back. “I’m the visual! Jimin looks like a Peep!”

Ah, so maybe they do pay attention. Taemin takes a step back. “Careful, hyung, you’ve got competition.”

“Did you hear that, everybody? He called me hyung. Ow, let up, that’s my kidney!”

“Jimin-ah,” Taemin says, “I watched your set. If you have a minute, let’s talk choreo in my dressing room.” He wraps his fingers around Jimin’s wrist. “I liked it this time, it’s getting more complex.”

Jeongguk stands up from the folding chair so hard and sudden it scrapes noisily across the floor. “Ah, sorry, hyung, we’re supposed to stay in the green room until call. Our managers say it’s hard enough to keep track of us as it is.” He slings his arm around Jimin’s shoulders and tugs him in close, and Jimin goes nearly boneless against him at the contact. Jeongguk smiles at Taemin, showing all those pretty white teeth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It looks like a dare.

Typically that’d rouse Taemin’s competitive side, make him want to pull Jimin into his dressing room and blow him just to prove a point, but Jimin’s looking at Jeongguk with an expression somewhere between kicked puppy and lovelorn drama heroine, and Taemin’s really annoyed.

He lets his gaze linger attentively on Jeongguk, sliding from his shoulders to his tapered waist, big hands, strong quads. “Sure,” he says smoothly. “We’ll talk another time.”

Jimin glances between Taemin and Jeongguk. His face falls. He shrugs off Jeongguk’s arm. “I have time,” he says. “Ggukkie’s not the manager.”

“I don’t want to cause you any trouble,” Taemin lies. Causing trouble is exactly what he wants to do. If Jeongguk’s touching Jimin like _that_, and staring at Taemin like _this_, and those two _aren’t_ fucking, there’s a serious problem in the Bangtan group dynamics. Jeongguk’s acting like Jimin belongs to him. He doesn’t get to behave like if they’re not actually together. It’s not fair, because it’s keeping Jimin from letting Taemin fuck him again, despite all the dirty texting. “I’d rather talk when we have more time, anyway. I’ll text you. We’ll have dinner soon.”

Jimin presses his lips together. “Sure, hyung.”

Taemin pats Jimin’s cheek affectionately, a barely-there touch as to not disturb his makeup. The pad of his thumb touches Jimin’s lower lip, slick with gloss. “Good work today.”

Jeongguk stares silently, thunderously.

As Taemin leaves, Yoongi catches his eye from the couch, raises his eyebrows, and mimes applauding.

*

Nearly forty-eight hours have passed since Taemin popped into their dressing room at Music Bank and Jeongguk is still acting weird. When they’re not practicing, he’s avoiding Jimin: playing Overwatch with Taehyung, watching bad nineties movies with Seokjin and Yoongi, or working out for hours in the weight room.

Jeongguk won’t touch him. He’ll barely look at him.

Jimin’s fucking sick of it. Jeongguk’s acting like Jimin personally wronged him by _having a friend_—okay, a very hot and talented and flirty friend, but still just a friend, regardless of That Night, and That Other Night, and, uh, the multiple texts requesting certain pictures in certain poses.

The worst part of it is that Jimin misses Jeongguk. He can’t even hold a grudge. It’s pathetic.

That’s what drives Jimin to text Taemin to meet up. Because, fine. If Jeongguk’s going to act all jealous and make Jimin feel like shit, Jimin might as well get laid to make all the suffering worth it. Taemin cheerfully invites Jimin over to his apartment, promising soju and bad television and a back rub and (embarrassingly, to Jimin’s inexperienced relief) no Jongin.

He’s pulling his shoes on in the foyer when Jeongguk sticks his head out of his bedroom door for the first time all night. He’s already in his pajamas—sweatpants, no shirt, which is mean of him—and his soft unstyled dark hair is pushed out of his face with a headband.

“Where are you going?” Jeongguk asks easily like he hasn’t been ignoring Jimin for two days. “It’s late.”

Jimin fixes his going-out disguise: mask under his chin, pink hair tucked under a nondescript gray beanie, tight jeans, loose shirt.

He’s sick of hiding. Jeongguk’s going to be pissy regardless, might as well tell the truth. “Taemin-hyung’s.”

Jeongguk’s expression shutters closed. He slides out of his bedroom and closes the door behind him. The other bedrooms in the dorm are closed as well, and sounds of video games and movies filter through the thin walls. “What for?”

“For drinks. He’s my friend,” Jimin says shortly.

Jeongguk’s in the foyer with him now, close enough to touch. Jimin really wishes he’d put on a shirt. “Jiminie, he doesn’t—he doesn’t just want to have drinks. I’ve seen how he looks at you. He’s—”

Anger surges through Jimin. He puts a palm flat on Jeongguk’s chest and shoves him back a step. “So what? Is that a problem?”

Jeongguk’s eyes widen a little. “Jimin-ah—”

“He’s still my friend,” Jimin whisper-yells in the quiet dorm. “If it bothers you that he—he likes me, you can deal with that. I like him too. I’m not going to stop being friends with him because you don’t.”

Jeongguk grimaces. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” Jimin tugs his beanie lower over his ears. He’s so fucking frustrated. It used to be so easy with Jeongguk, so comfortable and trusting and _real_, and now it's like Jeongguk is pushing him away and jerking him back, over and over. It’s confusing. It _hurts._ “Would you prefer me to go pick up strangers and bring them back here?” The question is acidic on his tongue and it makes Jeongguk wince.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I don’t know what you mean at all.” Jimin crosses his arms over his chest and leans his back against the front door. “I’m not like you. I can’t get onstage and sing about girlfriends and love and pretend it’s real and not—not be affected. By that.”

Suddenly he’s exhausted. Jeongguk’s watching him wide-eyed, looking young, and lost, all the fight gone out of him.

“Taemin’s _nice_ to me,” Jimin says, with a horrifying little edge of desperation in his voice. He just wants Jeongguk to understand. If he can’t have Jeongguk the way he wants, at least they could go back to the way things were. “I can be myself around him.”

Jeongguk steps closer again, boxing Jimin in against the front door. His eyes gleam wet, and he tilts his chin down, looking at Jimin’s hands instead of his face. “But not around me?”

“Shut up,” Jimin says without heat. Jeongguk’s so close to him now, wide-shouldered and warm and tan, and Jimin knocks his head back against the door to keep himself from slumping against him. “I’m leaving.”

The muscle in Jeongguk’s jaw twitches, but he nods and steps back.

“Yah, Gguk-ah.” Yoongi sticks his head out from Seokjin’s room. “Come play Overwatch. We need a fourth.”

Yoongi’s unreadable expression drills into Jimin. He leaves the dorm with his heart heavy as a stone and takes a car to Taemin’s. He shouldn’t be upset. Jeongguk behaved exactly as he expected. He should be mad—he is—but more than that, he’s _lonely._

When Taemin opens the door to his apartment, his bright smile fades. “Jiminie,” he says. “Everything okay?”

Just the question alone is enough to make something in Jimin’s chest crumple. It must show on his face, because Taemin pulls him into the apartment and immediately into an embrace. Jimin melts into it, leaning his weight heavily on Taemin’s narrow body, sighing into the crook of his neck that always smells so clean and good. “Aish, Jiminie,” Taemin says fondly. He tugs off Jimin’s beanie so he can card his fingers through Jimin’s hair, then kisses Jimin’s temple. “What’s going on?”

After That Night, Taemin sat on the bed next to him, squeezed his hand, and said, _I know how it feels. I know how scary it is._

“Jeongguk’s annoying,” he says, in a small, sad voice.

Taemin hums. “I could’ve told you that.” He pulls back and tips his forehead against Jimin’s. “Let me kiss you. Then you can tell hyung all about it, okay?”

Jimin’s breath catches in his throat. He manages to nod.

Taemin keeps one arm wrapped around Jimin’s waist and cradles the back of Jimin’s head with the other. The first brush of his lips on Jimin’s is just that—a brush—but Jimin can’t help but exhale against his lips, open his mouth for more. Taemin hums again, low and musical in his chest, and deepens the kiss.

The thing is, Jimin doesn’t have a lot of opportunities to kiss people. The last time he was kissed was by Taemin, on That Night.

And it wasn’t like this. That kiss had been hot and devouring, tasting of wine and sharp with teeth and the promise of more. This one—

Taemin’s gentle. He draws his tongue over Jimin’s lower lip, his cupid’s bow, then deeper, brushing against Jimin’s tongue, teeth, all with his fingers tight in Jimin’s hair, guiding him.

God, it’s nice. It’s so nice. It’s so nice just to be wanted. It’s so nice to be touched like this. To know exactly what they want from each other. Jimin melts against him, first gripping his hips, then running his hands up Taemin’s sides to loop around his neck.

Taemin makes a soft, pleased sound as he breaks the kiss, dropping another one lightly on Jimin’s lower lip, then his cheek, then his browbone. “Feel better?”

He does. He feels a little calmer. A little more settled.

“Let’s sit on the couch,” Taemin says. “I’ve got soju. And ice cream.”

Jimin all but collapses onto Taemin’s couch, settling into the corner of it with his feet tucked under him. He’s tingly all over from the kiss, tired, but comfortable.

“So.” Taemin pours soju and opens the ice cream. He drives two spoons into the center of it like he’s stabbing a piece of meat. “What’s going on with your Jeongguk?”

It’s hard to say it. But he will. He can, with Taemin. He cracks open the shell around his heart. “I like him.”

“I know.” Taemin eats a tiny spoonful of ice cream. “He likes you, too.”

“He doesn’t,” Jimin says miserably, sinking deeper into the couch. “He’s straight.”

Taemin rolls his eyes. “Who cares? Jonginie’s straight.”

Jimin blinks. “Jongin? Kai-ssi?”

“Yeah.” Another tiny bite. “He is, seriously.”

“But… You two... “ Jimin takes a sip of his soju. “I witnessed some not-straight behavior.”

Taemin tips his head back against the back of the couch. “Some people are stupid.”

Is Taemin talking about Jimin? Or Jongin? Or Jeongguk? Or all of them? Jimin takes his own bite of ice cream instead of responding.

“They think they’re straight because it’s easy to be straight,” Taemin says. “You don’t have to think about it. And they meet someone they’re not supposed to want” —Taemin motions at himself and Jimin— “then start wanting them, and then they have a meltdown about it.”

Jimin nods like he understands.

“Jongin doesn’t sleep with any other guys,” Taemin says. “Just me. And you, if you ever wanted to, but he’d want me to be there. He still mostly sleeps with girls. But we worked through his meltdown when we were seventeen.”

Ten years. Jimin’s eyes widen.

“I know, I know, it’s cute.” Taemin waves his hand, like he’s dispelling the words Jimin hasn’t even said. “I think your Jeongguk’s having his own meltdown now. He really doesn’t like me.”

“Ugh, I’m sorry, he was _so _rude at Music Bank—”

“Specifically,” Taemin interjects, “He doesn’t like me flirting with you. Or touching you.”

Heat rises in Jimin’s cheeks.

“Because _he_ wants you.” Taemin narrows his eyes at Jimin. “He’s jealous. Obviously.”

“Then why doesn’t he say that?” Jimin takes a bigger sip of soju, a bigger bite of ice cream. “He’s been acting like an asshole.”

“Because he’s _stupid._” Taemin takes the soju glass out of Jimin’s hand and sets it aside. He touches Jimin’s cheek, forcing Jimin to meet his eyes. “Jimin-ah.” He traces his forefinger down the bridge of Jimin’s nose and over his lips. “A lot of people are going to fall for you.”

Taemin says this not like a compliment, but a fact. (How many people have fallen for Taemin?)

“Is Jeongguk the one you want?”

Maybe it’s the blood pounding in his ears, loud and overwhelming, drilling into his brain like the sea of screaming fans, but what springs to mind is:

Stage. Somewhere far from home, and Jimin had been sleep deprived and worn down from the grueling schedule, and after the performance something in him had just snapped under the weight of it all. His tears had only made the screams crescendo, and Jimin was sure he was finally going to lose it for real. Until he felt the familiar weight of Jeongguk’s body press against his back. Jeongguk had set his chin on the top of Jimin’s head and said something to appease the fans, then tipped his head down so his mouth was right at Jimin’s ear, and whispered, just for him: _“Do you want to leave? We can leave right now.”_

_We._

Leave the show, leave the band, leave this whole life behind: Jeongguk would come with him. And that’s at the heart of what he wants, isn’t it? Jeongguk at his side even when all the stadium lights have gone out.

Jimin blinks hard, then nods. 

“Well, then.” Taemin flops back on the couch, the spell of his touch suddenly broken. He really _is_ a witch. “You have to let him work through his meltdown on his own.”

Jimin has whiplash. He takes another bite of ice cream. “He’s stubborn. What if he doesn’t figure it out?”

_What if you’re wrong?_

“We can probably speed the process along,” Taemin says demurely. “If you want to.”

“How?”

“Make him more jealous.” Taemin smiles, slow and almost predatory, the same way he’d smiled on That Night as he’d run his teasing hands through Jimin’s hair. He’s leaning heavily into the couch, relaxed, but his gaze is dark and intent. “Have some fun along the way. But only if you want to.”

Taemin’s so fucking _much._ He’s not wearing any makeup, just sweatpants and an oversized long-sleeved shirt, but somehow radiates desire—not a unique desire for Jimin, exactly, more like a hyper-charged sexual energy that happens to direct itself at Jimin because JImin’s hot and willing and hungry in the same ways Taemin is.

And Jimin likes being in the sight of this particular rifle. Taemin’s shameless, and Taemin _wants_ so openly, wants like he’ll get it, whatever it is, like it’s a done deal. Like there’s no fear, no risk of pain or loss or rejection or discovery.

Jimin wants to be like that, too.

He knows Taemin’s interested. Taemin’s fucking fingered him, for fuck’s sake. He kissed him, like, thirty minutes ago. So there’s no reason for Jimin to be anxious—Taemin’s not going to push him away, or say Jimin’s too close, too much, too needy, too desperate.

So he steels himself internally, then scrambles across the couch to straddle Taemin’s hips.

Taemin huffs a surprised exhale, but when Jimin shyly meets his eyes, he’s grinning. “Jiminie.” He slides his hands up Jimin’s thighs, slowly, all the way up to press his thumb into the crease of his hips. “Such nice legs. Always wanna get them over my shoulders after I watch you dance.”

Jimin feels all the blood rush to his cheeks. “Aish! Hyung!”

Taemin laughs. “So cute.” He fists his hand in the front of Jimin’s shirt to kiss him deeply.

The kiss is harder this time, hungrier, with Taemin’s teeth scraping at Jimin’s lower lip and his hand digging hard into the muscle of Jimin’s thigh. It’s so good, makes him feel dizzy, sparks dancing across his skin, He shifts his hips minutely in Taemin’s lap like he can’t get close enough.

Jimin breaks the kiss, his breath coming hard and fast as he tips his forehead against Taemin’s. “How do we do it?”

There’s a nice pink flush in Taemin’s cheeks, now, and his lashes flutter long and dark as his eyes flicker open. “Hm?”

“Make him jealous.”

Taemin slides both his hands under Jimin’s shirt and up the planes of his back. “Your Ggukkie,” Taemin says warmly. “He hates it when I touch you.”

That sends liquid heat running down Jimin’s spine, pooling low in his belly. Jeongguk had reacted so viciously to Taemin in the dressing room, gone surly and cold but possessive at the same time, like if he touched Jimin enough he could erase the sense-memory of Taemin’s hands on Jimin’s skin.

If Jeongguk could see this.

“He does,” Jimin breathes, and tips his head back toward the ceiling. Taemin kisses the hollow of his throat.

“Let me leave a mark,” Taemin says against his skin.

“Oh,” Jimin breathes. He’s suddenly aware of how hard he is, heavy and throbbing in the confines of his stupid tight jeans. He shifts his hips, chasing any kind of touch.

Taemin tugs the neckline of Jimin’s shirt low and nudges his teeth against Jimin’s collarbone. “Not anywhere the cameras will see. Just for your Jeonggukkie to find.”

“Yes.” Jimin’s voice is high and breathless, and something in his tone makes Taemin’s manicured nails bite into his back. “Please, yes.”

Taemin withdraws his hands and swats Jimin playfully on the ass. “Get up. Bed. Let me do it properly.”

It takes a second, but Jimin’s overloaded brain does eventually comprehend Taemin’s words, and he climbs unsteadily to his feet. Taemin smiles, laughing low, and leads him into his room. It’s not the elegant, pristinely decorated sex den Jimin sort of expected. It looks like a normal young man’s room, with clothes strewn on the floor, a towel hanging over the closet door, and the off-white sheets of the big bed mussed from sleep.

Taemin pushes him onto the bed and Jimin shimmies into the middle. Taemin crawls atop him, knees bracketing his hips, and runs his palms down Jimin’s chest, still covered by his soft t-shirt.

“Pretty,” Taemin hums, and Jimin squirms at the praise. The weight of Taemin’s body is a sweet pressure against his straining cock, but it’s not enough, not even when he shifts and tries to thrust against him. Taemin rucks Jimin’s shirt up under his arms, then hums thoughtfully and wrestles Jimin out of it the rest of the way.

“Do this.” Taemin demonstrates: he raises his arms overhead then grabs the opposing elbow in each hand. Jimin copies the motion, lying flat on the bed, so his arms are overhead, his head not quite resting on his forearms. It stretches his back, just a little, lengthening the muscle in his torso, and Taemin sighs at the sight. “Keep them there.” He skates a hand down Jimin’s bare chest, fingertips catching on his nipples, and the sensation is so light but so intoxicating Jimin arches into it. 

“Pretty, pretty, Jiminie,” Taemin says again. He pulls his own shirt off, almost as an afterthought, then leans down and kisses Jimin, slow and wet and dirty, before he trails his mouth lower, down the column of Jimin’s throat and across his shoulder. “And your Jeonggukkie knows it, too. I bet you drive him crazy.”

Jimin gasps and grips his own arms tight enough to bruise.

“I bet he watches you dance,” Taemin says. “Same as I do. Does he?”

Jimin’s breath stutters. At practice, sometimes, he catches Jeongguk’s gaze fixed on him in the mirror, not counting beats or mimicking steps, but just—watching, following the movement of Jimin’s hips or shoulders. Sometimes Jeongguk steps closer. Asks him for a move slower. Asks him to do it again. And Jimin always thought he was imagining the dark look in Jeongguk’s eyes— But what if— What if—

“Yeah,” Jimin whispers.

Taemin drops more kisses down his chest, swipes his tongue hot and hard against Jimin’s nipple, making Jimin twist against the bed. “Thought so,” Taemin murmurs. “What do you think he’ll do when he sees this?”

Then Taemin sets his teeth gently against Jimin’s pectoral muscle, just above his right nipple. It’s just a little teasing press of teeth, first, then a gentle kiss, and then Taemin sucks _hard_.

He might as well have a hand on his cock for how intensely his body reacts. It’s only by sheer force of will that he keeps his hands where they are as his back arches, hips straining, legs tensing all the way to his ankles. It’s just so fucking hot, and ridiculous, knowing the mark will be there not for Jimin, not for Taemin, but for Jeongguk. Taemin pins Jimin’s hips to the bed, his small hands surprisingly strong, and works his mouth over the same place for what feels like hours.

Then, finally, he stops, and kisses the reddened skin.

Jimin’s going to fucking explode.

Taemin flattens his body against Jimin’s and kisses his neck, his jaw, his cheek, then finally his mouth, and Jimin breathes a moan into it. Taemin slides his hands from Jimin’s hips to his ribs, and even Jimin’s breath feels trapped by the touch. It’s so _fucking _good.

“I think he’ll like it,” Taemin purrs into his mouth. “I tried to make it pretty. Like you.”

“Hyung,” Jimin begs, and his voice is embarrassingly high, near the breathy top of his register. “Please.”

“What do you want?” Taemin peppers his skin with more kisses, each one a burning hot brand.

“You.”

“That’s doable.” Taemin’s voice is low and pleased. “How do you want me? Like last time?”

Jimin shuts his eyes tightly. It’s the only way he can say it. “Want to blow you.”

“Yeah?” Taemin rolls off him, props himself on his side, and guides Jimin’s hands down from over his head. He runs his fingers down Jimin’s biceps, then his forearms, encouraging the blood flow; it gives Jimin a moment to breathe. “You’d do that for me?”

And yeah, Taemin’s absolutely playing up his charm, but it works. Jimin leans over and kisses him hard on the mouth. “Let me, please.”

Taemin sits back against the headboard. He’s still in his sweatpants, but he spreads his legs, and Jimin can’t resist the invitation to crawl between them.

Suddenly Jimin _wants, _wants so fucking bad, wants this, wants what he’s never allowed to have, what he’s been pretending not to want for so long. He lies flat on his belly between Taemin’s spread legs, drops open-mouthed kisses on the flat plane of Taemin’s slender torso, then, without preamble, presses his face to the hard line of Taemin’s cock in his sweatpants.

With a thunk Taemin’s head knocks back against the headboard. Taemin rakes his fingers hard through Jimin’s hair. He must know this is Jimin’s first time, but he doesn’t say anything about it, for which Jimin is absurdly grateful.

God.

Jimin opens his mouth against the shape of it and just breathes. Above him, Taemin exhales hard.

He’s so fucking turned on it’s like he’s melting from the inside out. He shifts his hips restlessly against the mattress and just that bare amount of friction has him leaking in his jeans like a teenager.

“Come on, Jimin-ah,” Taemin murmurs. It’s the first time all night he’s sounded genuinely affected.

That’s enough to have Jimin pulling the waistband down just enough to pull out Taemin’s cock. It’s slim like the rest of him, perfectly proportioned, and when Jimin mouths at the skin around it—at Taemin’s hips, the crease of his thigh—it twitches. Taemin smells so good, like his perfume, and the dark musky scent of sweat, and Jimin’s going to come in his pants in, like, minutes.

Taemin’s grip tightens in his hair. “Don’t tease hyung.”

He’s not teasing, Jimin wants to argue, he’s _enjoying_, but he wants Taemin to enjoy it too, so he stops fucking around and sucks the head of Taemin’s cock into his mouth.

Taemin gasps and his hips twitch, pushing his cock a little deeper, and oh, that’s nice. It’s heavy and hot against his tongue, intoxicating, Jimin takes it a little deeper, runs the flat of his tongue against the vein, sucks hard.

Soon both of Taemin’s hands are in Jimin’s hair, gripping tight. “Oh, Jiminie,” he sighs. “Feels good.”

Jimin can’t stop rutting against the bed. Heat builds in his spine as he sucks Taemin off, finding a rhythm easily—he’s a fast learner—wrapping his hand tight around what he can’t fit in his mouth.

Taemin shifts beneath him, hips rocking in time with Jimin’s movements. “Wish your Jeongguk was here,” he murmurs, low.

Jimin nearly fucking chokes.

Taemin untangles one of his hands from Jimin’s hair to trace his cheek, then the seam of his lips where they meet Taemin’s cock. “Look up,” Taemin says, and it takes some courage, but Jimin meets Taemin’s gaze.

Taemin’s eyes are dark, and heated, and his cheeks are flushed red, his mouth open with desire. “He’s so _stupid_,” Taemin murmurs in furious disbelief. “You’re unreal. He should be on his knees thanking you every day.”

Jimin has to close his eyes after that.

“Gonna make me come,” Taemin warns. Jimin picks up his pace instead. Taemin sighs out a curse. “Jiminie. Your mouth. Fuck. Tell hyung if he doesn’t treat you like you deserve. I’ll scold him. I’ll spank him in front of you.”

Beneath him, Taemin’s abs clench and jump, and then he’s coming, hot and overwhelming; Taemin gasps, his hand tight in Jimin’s hair, and he said he’d _scold_ Jeongguk; Jimin’s rubbing against the mattress hard and desperate, his forehead tipped against Taemin’s hip.

“Oh, Jiminie,” Taemin says lazily. “Are you close?”

Jimin nods, eyes clenched shut as he chases his own release. With the hand in his hair Taemin tilts Jimin’s head up, just a little, and slides two fingers into his mouth. “You swallowed all of that,” he murmurs warmly. “You did so well.”

The heat building in his spine suddenly coalesces and explodes—pleasure so intense he thinks it might blow the top of his head off. Jimin comes so hard he sees fireworks behind his eyelids. Taemin murmurs encouragement through it, withdrawing his fingers from Jimin’s mouth and releasing his hair to run his hands soothingly over him instead, petting at his brow, his cheeks, the nape of his neck.

Once Jimin’s brain can do things like move his limbs and potentially, maybe, make sentences, he rolls onto his back and smiles up at Taemin, loopy with the aftershocks.

Taemin leans down and kisses him on the mouth, a brief, sweet gesture. “Come look in the mirror.”

In the very well-lit bathroom Jimin examines the hickey. Taemin stands behind him with his chin hooked over his shoulder, smiling, pleased, like a cat leaving a caught mouse on the porch. “It suits you.”

The mark is angry red, already purpling at the edges on Jimin’s sensitive skin, and it’s distinctively mouth-shaped. He blushes hard at the sight.

“What do you think?” Taemin asks.

“He’s gonna be mad.”

They catch eyes in the mirror. Jimin can’t suppress a giggle, which escalates into a laugh—he feels wild with it, manic, a little bit powerful, like he can finally play a card Jeongguk isn’t expecting.

And if it works, it works. If it doesn’t, maybe Taemin will be open to another round.

Taemin laughs warmly and drops a kiss on the slope of his shoulder before stepping away. He finds his phone on the nightstand and thumbs through it. “Do you want to crash here tonight, or are you heading back to your dorm?” He chucks a clean pair of sweatpants at Jimin’s head. “Here.”

“Aish,” Jimin says, blushing harder. But it should be more awkward than it is. It’s weirdly comfortable. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you. Now I don’t have to change my sheets.”

Jimin rubs his hand over the mark on his chest. “What would you do?”

Taemin glances up from his phone. “About what?”

“For maximum jealousy. Should I stay here?”

Taemin laughs, surprised. “Dedication. I like it.” He taps his forefinger to his lower lip thoughtfully. “Do you two share a bed?”

Jimin tugs off his jeans and slips into Taemin’s sweatpants, which are soft, cut stylishly, and just _feel_ expensive. “Sometimes.”

“If I were you, I’d go back to the dorm and sleep in his bed.” Taemin nods to himself, like he’s solved a challenging transition in a piece of choreography. Then he grabs the shirt he was wearing off the bed and tosses it to Jimin. “Wear this, too. He’ll hate that.”

“That’s evil.” Jimin tugs the shirt over his head. It’s tan, scoop necked, and big enough that Jimin can pull the hem of sleeves over his knuckles. It smells strongly of Taemin: rosewood, bergamot, a warm edge of sweat.

“It’s strategic.” Taemin sets his phone down and gazes for a moment at Jimin with a soft look in his eyes. Then he steps closer and fusses with Jimin’s hair, smoothing out the mess. It’s sweet, and attentive, and Jimin hums a little under the touch. “I was serious, though,” Taemin says. “I’ll scold him. I don’t like the way he’s treating you.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Jimin says softly. “Thanks for being nice.”

Taemin tugs at the shirt, adjusting the way it hangs so the neckline reveals just the barest edge of red and purple on Jimin’s chest. “Pretty. Go break his heart.”

By the time Jimin makes it back to the dorm, it’s late, really late, and he’s exhausted down to his bones. He stands at the door to Jeongguk’s room for a long, unsteady moment—

_What if Taemin’s wrong?_

—but he slips inside.

He slides gently into Jeongguk’s bed like he has hundreds of times before. Jeongguk barely wakes up, just enough to murmur _Chim_ all low and rumbly as he scoots over to make room. Jimin nuzzles his face into Jeongguk’s chest and Jeongguk loops an arm over him, keeping him close, before he settles into sleep.

*

_come over, it’s an emergency_

_i’m in the studio ??? thought u had JM over?_

_he’s gone now come overrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_

_i’ll buy you coffee in the AM_

_lol did he leave halfway thru again_

_no ;) but now it’s time for round 2 please_

_LOL TAE COME ON it’s like 1am_

_stop being mean_

_I’ll tell you all about it ;) ;) ;) <3 <3 <3_

_-______-_

_k fine im otw_

_it’s breakfast tmrw not coffee_

_cheap ass_

Forty-five minutes later, Taemin’s facedown on his own bed with Jongin’s teeth at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Jongin presses into him slowly, slowly, the pressure sending sparks up his spine, his toes curling into the sheets. Once Jongin’s hips are flush against Taemin’s ass, he stops, breath hot and staccato against Taemin’s skin.

Taemin _loves_ this part. The little pause like Jongin will break if he moves too soon.

It lasts an eternity as Jongin gets his bearings.

Then, without warning, he pulls out and thrusts back in hard enough to shove Taemin’s whole body a few inches up the bed. Taemin keens; Jongin smiles against his shoulder and does it again.

“Bet you liked toying with him,” Jongin growls in his lowest register. He skates a hand down Taemin’s arm and covers Taemin’s hand with his own, links their fingers in a protective, possessive touch. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? No one else can give it to you the way you really like it, right?”

Taemin gasps, tries to push back to meet Jongin’s thrusts, but Jongin won’t let him. Jongin pulls out all the way and rubs his cock over the cleft of Taemin’s ass teasingly. Taemin curses.

“Right?” Jongin repeats, deep voice in Taemin’s ear, followed by the flicker of his tongue on the shell of it.

“Right,” Taemin breathes. His cheeks burn.

Jongin grins, satisfied, nips Taemin’s earlobe playfully, then fucks him just the way Taemin likes it: slow, deep, unrelenting. There’s this warm feeling in his chest as he falls apart, gasping beneath Jongin, but he doesn’t interrogate it too closely.

*

Jeongguk’s alarm goes off at an ungodly early hour.

“No,” Jimin whines. He slings an arm around Jeongguk’s waist and pulls the covers up higher. “Not yet.”

Usually, Jeongguk’s out of bed and pulling the covers off Jimin within thirty seconds. He doesn’t do that. He snoozes the alarm and lets Jimin pull the white sheet over their heads. The pale sunlight streaming in through the window glows through the cotton and haloes Jeongguk’s hair, accentuating the flyaways. His eyes are heavy-lidded, a little bit red-rimmed, like he didn’t sleep much at all.

Jimin wants to kiss him so badly. It’d be so easy right here, so natural, in the cave of the sheets with just the space of a breath between them and Jimin’s fingers spread on the slope of Jeongguk’s ribcage.

“You got in late,” Jeongguk rumbles.

“Did I wake you?”

“No.” Jeongguk taps Jimin’s cheek. “Dark circles.”

“You have them too.” It’s almost normal. It’s almost enough. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Yah, last night.” A crease forms between Jeongguk’s brows. Unthinkingly Jimin runs his thumb across it. Jeongguk looks _wounded._ “Yoongi-hyung scolded me.”

“Aish. Yoongi’s scary.” It’s too hard to look at Jeongguk’s face when he looks like that. Jimin rolls onto his back. “What was he mad about?”

A beat. Jeongguk inhales sharply.

Jeongguk pulls the sheets down with sudden force. He props himself up on his elbow. “Jimin.” The wide neck of the shirt has slipped down. Jeongguk hooks his forefinger in the neckline and tugs it further, revealing the hickey in all its bruised glory. “What’s this?”

When Taemin had said _make him more jealous_, Jimin hadn’t actually considered how this conversation would go. His initial instinct is to soothe, appease, apologize—anything to dispel the pained downward curve to Jeongguk’s lips.

But that’s not why he’s here.

He wants Jeongguk to see him the way Taemin sees him. He wants Jeongguk to see the way Taemin makes him feel_. _To say,_ you can have me this way. You can_. _You do._

He reaches his arms overhead in the guise of an early morning stretch, shifting on the bed so the hem of the shirt rides up enough to reveal a glimpse of skin. He meets Jeongguk’s gaze and lets his eyes go half-lidded, lets his lips part a little.

Jeongguk jerks his hand back like it burns. He sits up and swings his feet to the floor, but doesn’t get up—he watches Jimin from over his shoulder, nose pressed into his own deltoid. He looks young in the dim morning light, his loose dark t-shirt making him seem smaller than he is. “Taemin-hyung did that?”

Jimin rubs his palm over the mark. “Too much to drink,” he lies. “We were just goofing off.”

Jeongguk’s gaze flickers down his body and back up. Jimin shifts a little under the attention. It’s different. More intense.

“It’s weird.”

“Why?” Jimin presses. Poking at the soft spots.

He doesn’t take the bait. “Why didn’t you sleep there?”

“Didn’t want to,” Jimin says. “Wanted to sleep here. With you.”

Jeongguk looks away. “Come on, get up. We have practice.”

“Yah,” Jimin whines. He grabs Jeongguk’s wrist. “There’s plenty of time left. Lay back down. I’m still tired.”

Jeongguk, for once in their entire codependent friendship, pulls his hand away. “You need to cover that. It’s too high up.” He pauses, bites his lip. “Get up, I’ll help you.”

After some half-hearted complaining, Jimin crawls out of bed and follows Jeongguk to the bathroom they both use because it has the best lighting. He leans against the sink and fiddles with sleeves of his shirt where they fall over his knuckles. “It doesn’t need to be covered,” Jimin says, because Jeongguk is locking the door, and he’d intended to get a rise out of him but the idea of standing here letting Jeongguk tend to the hickey is overwhelming in a heady, almost sickening way. Jimin’s not sure if he can bear it. “I’ll just wear a t-shirt.”

“You hate practicing in t-shirts.” Jeongguk pulls Jimin’s makeup bag from beneath the sink. “They bother your neck.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You’ll complain the whole time. It’ll be okay in your regular practice shirt if you just cover it a little.”

“Gguk-ah,” Jimin murmurs.

The nickname gets Jeongguk’s attention. He finally looks up from where he’s rooting around in Jimin’s makeup. He’s got that intent, focused, but distant look in his eyes—the same looks he gets when they’re filming, when he really doesn’t want to do something, but he’s determined to do a good job. He’s _hating _this.

Jimin can’t help it. He tucks a stray lock of dark hair behind Jeongguk’s ear. “You take good care of me.”

Jeongguk sucks his teeth. He grips Jimin’s forearm. “This isn’t yours.”

The grip is tight, Jeongguk’s fingers pressing into the muscle, but sliding over the fabric. Jimin’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t answer.

Jeongguk wasn’t looking for an answer, though. He lifts Jimin’s arm up and brings it close to his face, noses at the loose fabric around his wrist. “Smells like Taemin-hyung.” His voice is so low, so deep in his chest, Jimin can hardly hear it. “Hate that I recognize it.”

“I borrowed it.” Jimin can barely get the sentence out. But he can play this game. “I’ll take it off.”

Then, like a spell broken, Jeongguk drops his arm and goes back to digging through the makeup bag.

No answer. Jimin sags back against the sink. He’s hard in his sweatpants—_Taemin’s_ sweatpants. So, fuck it. He pulls the shirt off and tosses it aside.

Jeongguk’s gaze flickers back to him, skitters over his bare chest. He finally pulls out a small bottle of pale concealer and applies a liberal amount to his fingertips. He pauses, touch lingering just above the hickey, a slight tremble in his hand.

Like they’re standing at the edge of… Of something. Jimin’s ready to jump—he already has, honestly, he’s already free-falling, unsure of where he’ll land.

Jeongguk holds Jimin’s gaze as he swipes the concealer across the hickey. “You shouldn’t let him leave marks. It’s too risky.”

Jimin grips the edge of the counter hard. He can’t help but tip his head back a little bit, hissing quietly at the cold. He’s hyper-sensitive—it’s not usually like this. Like his nerves are on fire. Like he has to tense all his muscles to keep from collapsing forward into Jeongguk.

“Stand still,” Jeongguk warns, and Jimin realizes he’s shaking.

Jeongguk grips Jimin’s shoulder hard with his other hand as he smooths the concealer across the hickey, layer after layer.

After what feels like a hundred years of Jeongguk’s fingers rubbing just above his nipple, the contact dizzying with how close it is to being what he wants, Jeongguk finally pulls back.

“There. That’s good enough.”

Jimin turns around to look in the mirror. The concealer almost worked—the mark looks less like a hickey and more like Jimin somehow ran chest-first into the edge of a table. And Jimin, well. There's a bright flush high in his cheeks, and the shape of his cock is clearly visible in his sweatpants, and they’re very much not talking about that.

“I gotta get dressed,” Jeongguk says. “We’re going to be late.”

“Ggukkie—”

He knows Jeongguk’s affected. He can see it in the color in his cheeks, the way he bites his lip, and the way he rushes out the door without another word.

Fuck. And now they have to _work._

In his bedroom Jimin pulls on his practice clothes—a wide-necked sweatshirt and slim-cut athletic pants—and finds Jeongguk was right. When he moves his shoulders a certain way the edge of the hickey is visible, but with the concealer, it’s hardly noticeable.

There’s no time to jerk off. He didn’t shower. The past hours cling to his skin like sweat. Taemin’s mouth. Jeongguk’s hands. He feels a little drunk. Reckless.

As expected practice goes horribly.

Despite his lack of sleep Jimin thrums with energy, enough to visibly irritate the other six. He ducks his chin at his own reflection as he works through Hoseok’s choreography again: five-six-seven-eight, powerful, sharp movements. But it’s so easy to add in a little twist of his hips here, a little flourish with his wrists there, changing it from severe to sultry.

The fabric of the sweatshirt hangs loose off his body, riding up with each jump, and the neckline threatening to slide lower and lower.

Jeongguk keeps missing his steps.

At hour six Hoseok is one misplaced joke away from quitting the band. “Jimin! Can you _please_ just do it the way it’s choreographed?”

Jimin drops his heels hard to the wooden floor, stopping his latest unnecessary twirl. He catches Jeongguk’s eyes in the mirror, finds his gaze heated, but a little lost. It makes him feel a little bad. Not bad enough to stop getting his attention, though.

“Sorry, Hobi.” Jimin cards his hands through his sweaty hair. “It’s just fun today. I like the choreo.”

“You’re a menace,” Hobi grumbles. He fiddles with his phone, plugged into the practice room’s speakers.

Jeongguk’s staring at Jimin. Yoongi’s glowering at Jeongguk. Namjoon’s contemplating Yoongi with some concern. Hoseok’s gazing up to the ceiling like he’s waiting to be struck down. Seokjin is purposefully ignoring it all as Taehyung, unconcerned, is attempting to teach him how to tut.

“All right,” Namjoon says. “I’m calling it. That’s enough for today.”

Taehyung nods, like this is the wisest thing he’s heard all day, and starts packing up his things spread across the practice room couch.

Seokjin pauses and glances between Yoongi and Jeongguk, then to Hoseok. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Hoseok unplugs his phone from the speakers and the silence is suddenly deafening. “Let’s go eat. We’ll make up for it tomorrow.”

Jimin plugs his phone into the speakers instead.

“Not coming?” Yoongi asks.

“I want to work on a few more things. I’ll catch up with you tonight.” Jimin’s still high-strung, on-edge, and he can’t be held responsible for what he does or says while in the company of Jeongguk and five others that will feed him drinks and encourage him to be as ridiculous and touchy as possible under the guise of group bonding. Better to work out some of this energy here.

Yoongi does not look convinced, but he doesn’t argue.

The six of them leave, Jeongguk silent and nervous-looking as Yoongi shoved him bodily out the practice room door.

Jimin puts on his own music, low, and promptly stops dancing. He towels the sweat off his hair and neck, and swipes it over the hickey, too. The concealer comes off with the sweat. He examines it closely in the mirror. It doesn’t look any better, nor worse—it’s just there, mouth-shaped and unignorable.

But maybe he went too far. Maybe instead of _why don’t you want me_ Jimin has said _you missed your chance._

He lies down on his back on the practice room floor. The hardwood’s nice on his back, steadying where he’s simultaneously loose and aching.

He spends about an hour cycling between dancing, worrying, lying on the floor, and looking at his phone. He’s considering texting Taemin for advice (even though he’s fairly certain Taemin’s answer would be _idk come over let’s make out about it__,_) when the door opens.

“Jiminie.” Jeongguk’s still in his practice clothes, too, but he’s pulled on a hoodie. He looks sad. He’s got a big paper bag, too. “I brought jjajangmyeon.”

Jimin sits up from supine and leans against the couch. Jeongguk seems worn down, in a way, and Jimin doesn’t have the heart to terrorize him with more intentional Looks. Not when he halfway thinks it’ll drive Jeongguk away for good. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yoongi-hyung forced me.” Jeongguk despairs as he sinks to the floor next to Jimin. “He wouldn’t let me eat with everyone else.”

It smells great. Jimin’s not even annoyed Jeongguk didn’t plan this himself. “Did you make him angry again? You never said why he scolded you.”

“I…” Jeongguk wrinkles his nose as he wrestles the lids off the takeout containers. “He wasn’t angry.”

Jimin tears the paper off the chopsticks and hands a pair to his wet-eyed Jeongguk. “Gguk-ah. What is it?”

The hickey’s hidden by his shirt, but Jeongguk’s eyes land on it regardless. “I don’t know why it makes me so mad.”

_Stupid,_ he hears in a very Taemin-like voice in his head. Jimin wants to shake him.

“I hate thinking of him… Touching you like that. Like it’s a game. Like it doesn’t mean anything.” Jeongguk stirs his noodles morosely and doesn’t eat them.

Jimin’s heart sticks in his throat. “Oh.”

Jeongguk’s sitting cross-legged, shoulders hunched forward, staring into his jjajangmyeon like it’ll reveal the secrets of the universe.

“If you… Did this. With someone.” Jimin speaks like he’s walking across a frozen lake, testing each footstep for cracks. “It would mean something.”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk says petulantly. “Of course it would.”

Jeongguk really looks like saying this is taking years off his life. And, in a way, hasn’t been Jeongguk saying this for years? It’s just a different language than Jimin’s speaking. It’s in the way he rubs at Jimin’s shoulders when he’s sore, lets Jimin lean on him when he’s tired, the way he smiles when Jimin steals his clothes, the way he shouts when Jimin hits a particularly hard dance move, the way he laughs at his jokes, the way he’s always finding little ways for them to get away from insanity that is their lives.

Little getaways. Together. Like Tokyo. Like this morning. Like right now.

Huh. Maybe _Jimin’s_ the stupid one. 

Jimin pushes his noodles away. “Ggukkie.”

“What.”

“Come here.” Jimin straightens his legs out in front of him and leans back against the couch, arms wide in an obvious invitation.

Jeongguk regards him warily for a moment, but then acquiesces. He knee-walks over and leans against the couch, pressed flush to Jimin’s side. Jimin’s body thrums with want, and with a new, unfamiliar surety. He noses at Jeongguk’s temple then drops a kiss there. It wouldn’t be any different than how they usually behave. Except that it is.

“The makeup came off,” Jimin murmurs in Jeongguk’s ear. “Help me cover it again.”

“You brought your concealer?”

“Not like that.”

Jeongguk leans away and narrows his eyes. But his eyes flicker down to the neckline of Jimin’s shirt, and his lips part just a little.

“It’ll mean something.” Jimin’s fingers bite into Jeongguk’s shoulder like he’s afraid Jeongguk will pull away. “I promise, Ggukkie.”

Jeongguk slides a hand over Jimin’s waist, tugging Jimin’s sweatshirt lower as he does, enough to reveal the hickey again. He sets his hand at Jimin’s hip so he’s halfway leaning over him. “Don’t joke about this, hyung.”

“Hyung’s not joking.” Jimin leans forward, just enough to brush his lips against Jeongguk’s.

Jeongguk’s completely still, except for a sharp, stuttering inhale. It’s not a deep kiss. Jimin catches Jeongguk’s lower lip between his, just enough to taste the strawberry lip balm he favors.

Jimin pulls back and tips his head back against the couch. “Please.”

The muscle in Jeongguk’s jaw jumps as he fixes his gaze on the hickey. Then, with a determined huff, he crawls on top of Jimin, and doesn’t give Jimin even the space of a breath to adjust to the fact that _Jeon Jeongguk_ is _on top of him_ before Jeongguk’s mouth is where Taemin’s was barely eighteen hours prior.

Jeongguk runs his tongue over it, first, just a molten hot swipe, and Jimin drives his hands under Jeongguk’s hoodie to cling to his hips.

It’s so different. So different than how it felt with Taemin. He tips his head forward to bury his nose in the crown of Jeongguk’s head; his soft dark hair smells like little like tea tree oil, the shampoo they both use. Jimin’s bones go liquid.

Then Jeongguk wraps his hands around Jimin’s ribcage and starts to worry the skin in his teeth. It doesn’t hurt—it’s tender, almost nervous, at least until Jimin sighs Jeongguk’s name.

Jeongguk’s grip tightens. He bites down harder, adds suction.

Jimin slides a hand up the back of Jeongguk’s hoodie to the back of his neck and grips there, hard, to ground himself, because if he doesn’t he might fucking vibrate out of his body.

“Jiminie,” Jeongguk doesn’t even look at the hickey. He drags his mouth up, across Jimin’s collarbone, to his shoulder, his neck, the corner of his jaw. “I got so mad.”

“I wanted you to,” Jimin manages to say, once he can think about anything besides the electric sensation of Jeongguk’s lips moving against his skin. “Wanted you to realize.”

Jeongguk makes a sound halfway between a disbelieving laugh and a bark of confusion. “You think I didn’t realize?” He sits back enough to rake both hands through Jimin’s hair, sending new tingling sparks down Jimin’s spine at the slight scratch, the pressure.

When Jimin manages to open his eyes Jeongguk’s gaze is dark and serious as he searches Jimin’s face. “Ugh.”

Jimin blinks. “Don’t say ‘ugh’ when you’re staring at me.”

“I thought—I thought you should be with whoever you wanted,” Jeongguk says, a little miserably, keeping one hand in Jimin’s hair as he tucks his face into the crook of Jimin’s neck. “But then it happened.”

Now it’s Jimin’s turn to be petulant. “Well, you were acting like my boyfriend, and I thought you liked _girls.”_  
  
“I do,” Jeongguk whines. “And you.”

“Just me?”

“Just you,” Jeongguk says. “So far.”

“So far!” Jimin shoves Jeongguk off him, laughing. He’s giddy, suddenly, it’s bright and bubbling in his chest as he grins at Jeongguk sprawled on his ass on practice room floor gaping at him like a fish. He looks down at the hickey—there’s two, now, Jeongguk’s offset slightly above Taemin’s, and Jimin’s heart does flips when he sees it. 

Jeongguk still looks a little lost, a little unsure. Jimin hauls himself to his feet and offers his hand. Jeongguk takes it, staggers up, and Jimin pulls him close and loops his arms around Jeongguk’s neck.

Jimin has to look up a little bit to meet Jeongguk’s eyes. He likes that. He likes how Jeongguk’s hands just fall to his hips like they belong there. “Guess what,” he says.

Jeongguk’s dazed. “What?”

“I don’t want anyone else.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jeongguk says, Busan slipping into the low rumble of his voice.

“That’s just my face,” Jimin laughs, and kisses him for real.

It’s easy to kiss him. It feels familiar, familiar like the way Jeongguk loops his arm over Jimin’s waist when he’s still asleep. Like they just fit.

Then it’s like something snaps in Jeongguk. He growls into the kiss, then wraps his arms tight around Jimin, sudden and strong, pulling them flush together. He kisses hard, demandingly, and Jimin shudders into it. He could melt. He could cry.

Taemin had made him feel desired. But Jeongguk holds him like he wants to pull Jimin impossibly close, into the dark depths of him, like he never wants to let go. It’s different. It’s intoxicating. Jeongguk’s fingers snarl in the fabric of his shirt at his back. He walks Jimin backwards, kissing him hungrily all the while, until Jimin’s knees hit the back of the practice room couch. 

Then Jimin’s flat on his back on the couch with Jeongguk above him. He pulls off his hoodie, his shirt slides up halfway, and Jimin automatically reaches out to skate his hand over Jeongguk’s abs.

Jeongguk exhales harshly and pulls off his shirt, too. He hovers over Jimin, hands framing Jimin’s head. Jimin takes the stripping as encouragement; he puts both hands on Jeongguk’s chest, tripping over his abs, across his defined pecs, then his shoulders, triceps, hungry to touch him. “So big now, Jeonggukkie,” Jimin mutters.

Above, Jeongguk makes a face like he wants to _eat_ him. Jimin finds he likes being at the receiving end of that expression quite a lot. He’s liquid hot all over, pliant for Jeongguk.

“Off,” Jeongguk says, tugging at Jimin’s shirt. Jimin’s happy to comply. Then Jeongguk turns his attention back to the hickey. He smooths his palm over it, almost thoughtful, then moves his hand lower, slowly across the pale skin of Jimin’s torso.

Jimin’s a little lost in the sensation. Lost in the fact that it’s him making Jeongguk look like that.

“Thought about this,” Jeongguk whispers, like a secret.

“Me, too.” Jimin sighs under his touch, lets his back arch a little, then presses down on Jeongguk’s back.

Under his hands Jeongguk goes flat against him, and—

He’s hard against Jimin’s hip. Really hard. And _big._

Jeongguk groans at the contact and presses his face hard into the crook of Jimin’s neck, like he’s embarrassed. He’s so broad, and hot, and his hips shift minutely against Jimin’s like he can’t stop. Sweat beads on Jeongguk’s skin, at his temples and the nape of his neck. Jimin kisses his shoulder then swipes the flat of his tongue across his skin. Salt. Heat. A warm, homey scent—the same woodsy musk that lingers in his bedroom, in his sheets.

Jeongguk rears back to kiss him again, deep and hungry. He slides his hand across Jimin’s hips, his fingertips catching in the waistband of his track pants. “Let me touch you.”

Jimin’s hard too, of course, dizzyingly hard, and he realizes like a gut-punch that he’s probably the first guy Jeongguk’s ever been with. 

(He wants to be the only one.)

“Not fair.” Jimin can’t help but smile against his lips. He shoves his hand between their bodies and palms the hard line of Jeongguk’s cock. “You too.”

Jeongguk kisses Jimin to distraction, setting his teeth in Jimin’s lower lip as he shoves Jimin’s track pants down, then his own, too, and Jimin doesn’t even get a chance to _see_ it because Jeongguk is kissing him into complete senselessness.

But he feels it. Jeongguk wraps one of his big hands around them both, so the length of his cock is pressed to Jimin’s, and _fuck_, it’s hot, and hard, and big, and wet at the tip, getting wetter, both of them getting wetter as Jeongguk’s hand moves in slow, dragging strokes.

Jimin’s gasping, babbling, variations of “Ggukkie” and “fuck” and “faster.” 

It’s incredible. It’s just his _hand. _And they’ll get to do this _again._

Jeongguk knocks his forehead against Jimin’s, and both their gazes drop down, following the movement. Jimin drops his hand down, covers Jeongguk’s—not guiding, just there, present, and it makes Jeongguk make a low noise like the touch hurts.

They have the same brain, apparently, because Jeongguk says, “Want to do this in my bed. Spread you out the way I’ve always thought about.” There’s a bright red blush high on his cheeks. “Eat you out.”

“Ggukkie!” Jimin gasps—the audacity! How is it possible that Jeongguk has fantasies dirtier and more detailed than his own?

How is it possible those fantasies might come to life?

He’s hot all over, tingling, melting, and his heart beating hard in his chest like it wants to pound through his ribs and escape to join Jeongguk’s instead.

And it’s easy, so easy to let the heat build in his gut, to let Jeongguk set the pace and drop open-mouthed kisses on his cheeks and neck and shoulders and just.

Let go.

He clings to Jeongguk as he comes, arm looped around his neck, gasping into his ear. Jeongguk works him through it, picking up the pace faster, faster so it almost hurts, a bright edge of pain that’s almost too much—almost— then Jeongguk exhales hard, bares his teeth against Jimin’s neck, and comes with a shudder.

Then he collapses.

Jimin’s brainless in the aftershocks, but still giddy; Jeongguk’s heavy body covering his is an absolute delight even though they’re both about to roll off the couch. Jeongguk’s breathing slows, heavy against Jimin’s neck.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Jimin plays a little with Jeongguk’s hair, then skates his hand down the plane of Jeongguk’s back, swats at his ass. “We’re still at the studio.”

“Won’t,” Jeongguk says in a rumbling voice that suggests he very much will.

“Sweet Jeonggukkie.” They’re going to stick together when they try to move. Jimin can’t stop grinning. “No sleeping on top of hyung.”

Jeongguk noses at Jimin’s neck, then heaves a heavy sigh. He adjusts himself enough just to kiss Jimin again.

“Hi,” Jimin says. He tugs at Jeongguk’s hair again to watch the way it makes Jeongguk’s eyes go half-lidded. “Hi, Ggukkie.”

“Hi.”

“I had a thought.”

“What's that?”

Jimin sighs. “We should’ve put the lids back on the jjajangmyeon. It’ll be cold now.”

“Oh. This is.” He pauses and blows a raspberry on Jimin’s shoulder. “The worst day of my life.”

“Mine, too,” Jimin chirps happily. “Come on, get up. Do you want to come home with me?”

There’s this look on Jeongguk’s face. It’s one Jimin hasn’t seen before, and he’s catalogued the vast majority of Jeongguk’s expressions. It’s sort of like—sort of soft, sort of vulnerable, sort of awed, and it makes Jimin want to kiss him. And he can.

So he does.

*

Another day, another photoshoot. This one’s for Capital Records shareholders, which Taemin thinks is particularly weird, but he’s learned to stop asking too many questions. The room is bustling with activity, with all of SuperM in various stages of makeup, and staff from both record labels on clipboards and phones or just carrying around laptops. Hip-hop’s playing, blending headache-inducingly with Mark picking out the chords to yet another Frank Ocean song because people keep making the mistake of letting him borrow guitars.

But, honestly, the chaos is comforting. It means things are happening. More music, more lives, more stage time with Jongin. Taemin’s on his phone, killing time by scrolling through his text thread with Jimin and deleting the particularly incriminating photos.

Jongin, who is styled in a ridiculous pinstripe jumpsuit thing, drops onto the couch next to him. “Hi. Anything good on Instagram I need to know about?”

Taemin scrolls to the bottom of the thread and shows the latest texts to Jongin, sent early that morning.

_it worked~~~~~~~~_

_;A; you’re amazing hyung~~~~~~_

_I owe you dinner x100 <3_

_JK’s a brat tho and says I can’t make out with you anymore_

_but still dinner x100 if you want please_

_also JK says sorry_

_well he doesn’t but i say he does_

_ok he does now_

Then there was a selfie of the two of them, with Jeongguk sheepishly making finger-hearts at the camera, Jimin smiling so wide his eyes disappeared into his cheeks.

“Cute,” Jongin says. “That didn’t take long.”

“I’m efficient.” Taemin sets his phone down and looks properly at Jongin. They’ve styled his hair so it falls artfully into one eye, and Taemin wants to brush it aside, but the makeup artists will kill him. “Kind of a shame, though, right? Like, one more dinner date, and then he would’ve been down.”

Jongin hums, then offers a careless little shrug. “Ah, it’s better this way. He was really torn up.”

Yeah, Jongin’s right, and Taemin’s happy for Jimin, but he can’t help but be a little disappointed that he won’t get a threesome with the two of them. Jimin’s unique. Taemin doesn’t expect to meet another guy who catches Jongin’s interest for a long time. He pouts a little about it.

Jongin knocks his knee against Taemin’s. “Oh, don’t make that face, Taeminnie. Always forward, right?” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Who’s your next project?”

It’s been, like, six hours since he got Jimin’s text. Of course he doesn’t have another ‘project’ lined up. But just to be difficult, he lets his gaze slide over to Yukhei, who is currently following around an American Capitol Records photographer, attempting to charm her with his terrible English and megawatt smile. She’s disinterested, but warming up.

“Taemin. Come on.”

“What?” Taemin flashes an innocent smile. “Have you seen how big his hands are?”

Jongin flicks him hard on the shoulder. “If you start that, I’m telling Kibum-hyung.”

“Bummie would support my dreams.”

“...You’re right. I’ll tell Jinki-hyung.”

“Aish. Okay, okay, I won’t. Just because he’d give us a stern talking-to again. Remember how fun that last one was?” That one was years and years ago, Taemin remembers fondly, when somehow Jinki had found out about them. He’d taken it upon himself to go all Leader-ssi, sit them down, and tell them about Safety, and Discretion, and how We Love You And We’ll Always Support You In Your Choices. An absolutely horrifying twenty minutes. Jongin had looked like he was on the brink of puking the entire time.

Jongin winces. “I try not to.”

Taemin aches, suddenly, a bone-deep ache. He misses them.

“Just a few more months,” Jongin says, low and private, because he can read Taemin’s mind. He loops his arm around Taemin’s shoulders and tugs him close. Despite the noise of the crowded room it settles him, and he tips his head onto Jongin’s shoulder, mindful not to screw up his hair too much. “We’ll be busy until then, it’ll go by fast.”

Jongin’s right, of course. This swell of longing will pass, it always does. And come December, they’ll all be back, and his group will be complete as it can be.

“I don’t have a project,” Taemin says.

“Oh?”

“Like you said. We’ll be busy. I’ll have to make do with just you.”

“Make do? You’re so mean,” Jongin says fondly.

“It’ll be tough,” Taemin says seriously. “But I think I can get through it.”

Jongin laughs, a soft, familiar sound. “All right. That works for me.”

To survive in this industry you have to learn to love secrets. He’s got more than a handful of his own, and now Jimin and Jeongguk’s little heartwarmer, too. But this secret, the one that has Jongin’s thumb under the neckline of Taemin’s shirt idly caressing his skin, is the secret Taemin loves most.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! thank you everyone who takes a moment to leave comments/kudos, they really brighten these tough days A LOT. [i'm on tumblr!](http://noticemedongsaeng.tumblr.com)


End file.
